


Anonymous: Candesce

by Davechicken



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anonymous promptfill, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 10:46:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes there are songs in your heart you must get out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anonymous: Candesce

I have always liked poetry, it always struck me as a very human reaction to the divine, to the beauty of the world. Faced with the wonder of creation, that spark of holiness inside each chest rose up in words on tongues and lips, singing glory, glory hallelujah; rejoicing in reality, giving form to the feeling, giving name to sensation, trying to tame the wild and make sense of the universe. I liked the sounds, I liked the _feelings_ I could hear echoed in the way words would twist and turn... but for all I sang on high with the choirs of my brethren, it was the song we all sang, not one of my own.

How right, then, that I should find my tongue moved to silence here. How fitting that an angel of the Lord should have the song broken in his chest like a shattered pane of glass, my tongue grown thick and fat with kisses straight from Hell that tasted only of Heaven.

We lie in the dark, though neither of us needs a light to see. I can see him perfectly even if I close my eyes, for his lines are etched somewhere, now. I could put my hands into the void and create a statue of pure alabaster, stroke my fingers over stone and pull away all that was not him. The idea - the form - the _shape_ of my lover lives somewhere deep in my breast.

In the dark, in the silence, I stare into his eyes. They are like the sun, I tell him - and he laughs. I cannot say the rest. I cannot set my thoughts correctly with the words, though the need, the _ache_ to consumes me like a madness. His eyes are like the sun, the surface ever-changing, the colours ever-dancing, like the flames that devour that primal breath of hydrogen over sol's twisting, burning surface. I stare into them - trying to pin them down with my words - but they dance with cunning and love in equal measure and I am helpless in their gaze. They burn, too, like the sun. My form would melt the very orbs from your face if you saw it, but this is a slower, more painful way to die. He looks at me and I _burn_ inside and out, the flush of my skin and the ache in my chest I would never give up. His eyes. Oh, those wicked, wonderful eyes.

I could write whole paens for him and never be done. Mine is a song that has no end but him.

When I see him fight, I see it in the line of his back. The perfect way he draws his frame up, shoulders squared and jaw set. _Come at me_ , says his stance, but I see the lie of it. I see the way he has moved, I see the way he pushes into the position, the posture that dares the whole world to ignore. My brave little King, broken and afraid some times. Who isn't? Who amongst us can say we never fear? But fear is weakness in the world of dog-eat-dog and so his hackles raise and his head lifts and for all the world he is magnificent.

For me, too, though I see the man below. When he is done - bloody and triumphant - and his enemies are ground beneath his feet or fled... this is when I step in. My hands on his strong shoulders and I press in with my thumbs and knead. Do you know the sound deep in his throat as I do? Do you know the way he melts like butter? My tongue will slide from the dip in his back up towards his throat and he will arch like a cat - tiger-turned-tabby - and when I sink my teeth in, when I bite at his neck he will call my name in bliss. My brave little soldier-King. I lick the battle from his soft skin. He should never have been thus, but neither should I have fallen. We are what we become.

As we lie, I push my fingertips through his soft hair. Unlike mine, his is too short to wind my fingers in and pull him where I want him, but he is ever ready to follow the way my hands and my body want him to go. It is beautiful, all the same. The strands fall softly over his scalp and whisp over his brow. To me, it will always look as if God himself had licked him into being like a she-cat shapes her child with her tongue, ruffling the fur on his head. My little proud lion. When I push it the wrong way it bristles - like he does - and settles back around my fingers. Sometimes sweat will make it stay where I put it, and I like that, too. I like to see the change I wrought upon his person, even if a shower will wipe the traces of me from his skin.

His hands, too, are beautiful. They are hands, you say, they are mere instruments. Mere tendons and ligaments that stretch and flex. No. Nothing could be further from the truth. His hands are glorious, whether they be wrapped around me and squeezing out my raptured song, or pushed inside me until my thighs tremble and the world shakes, or simply tangled in mine.

The first time he held my hand, I wanted to cry. You may laugh all you want, but I did. Such a simple thing, but his fingers - the mirror of my own - pushed between mine and our palms connected and it was so much _more_. I lift his hand to my face and I rain down kisses on the push of knuckles through skin. I bite at the flesh of his thumb, and I hollow my cheeks as I suckle his digits in deeply, listening to the breath catch in his throat.

_My demon, my lover, my heart._

What words can I say enough? How can I frame these thoughts, when God himself has already succeeded himself in the very act of creation? Why do I feel I must try nonetheless? Why do I find the urge to sing, the tickle in my throat, in my _Grace_? These things are inside, and I laugh when I should not because I remember and I feel and it is too much, much too much.

Sometimes I think the cleft above his lips was put there when someone pressed their finger to his lips and shushed, because the voice that comes from his throat is unholy. How can anyone think when he speaks? His words are like his blunt fingernails scratching down my sides, or pulling the feathers of my wings out one by one. I could listen to him all day. I _would_ listen to him all day. But more than the rough-cut hard-carbon stone it's the _smile_ you can hear in it. I do not know how else to describe it, other than it sounds as if he understands that everything, deep down, is a joke. Or - perhaps - just something worth laughing about. I am ruined when he calls my name. I am destroyed when he tells me to move. I am lost and found and home when he cries out. He is my drug, and I cannot get enough. I would offer tribute worthy of Caesar if only to hear him happy.

To see him smile.

Once you see him smile, you cannot hate him. I challenge you on that. _Truly_ smile, I say, because when he does there is nothing but the sharp lines of his teeth and the knowledge that good things exist in the world. No matter what might happen, he can still smile. My fingers stroke that beautiful jaw of his and I pull the smile against my chest in the hopes that it will stay. Stay always.

Oh, I love him. I love him so.

I wish I could say how much.

I see something in him you never, ever will.

Inside that frame lies the coiling, twirling, dancing crimson smoke that is what remains of his soul. I like to think the red is his heart, the love he can never let go fully. My lover is not black like the night, he is resplendent in his glory.

Deep down.

Deep underneath.

In between all the smoke and mirrors.

There is a guttering flame which he never let go, the fuel for all that fog. A tiny little thing, struggling through the Hell that is this world, never _quite_ giving up, never _quite_ losing faith. There, hidden between the smiles and the laughs and the words is the hope he never could abandon.

And that is where I gently put myself. I slide into the bowl, giving him the love he needs to keep on burning. Use my hydrogen to light the fire in your eyes. Use my love to keep going.

We will candesce together, forever.


End file.
